Drowning
by Ivory Kiss
Summary: John wants nothing more than to avoid thinking about 'the worst day', the day he watched his best friend throw himself from the top of St. Bart's hospital. With Sherlock gone, unanswered questions and unspoken thoughts forever remain. ONE-SHOT. Post-Reichenbach.


Drowning

John Watson sat in the unnaturally comfortable chair before his therapist as he rapidly drummed his fingers against the armrest, providing the only noise in the now-silent room. She blinked slowly, her head tilting to the side as she peered at him, patiently waiting for his answer. Just as she had done in their very first session, eighteen months ago. However, John could not speak, could scarcely draw in a single breath as he stared at her with cold, uncharismatic eyes, the words she had spoken just moments prior practically deafening him as they repeated themselves over and over within the confines of his roaring head.

"John?" she prompted calmly, her voice light as she uncrossed her legs, leaning forward ever so slightly.

He forced himself to swallow, finding his mouth dry as sand-paper. "Yes?"

"I asked if you would mind telling me what you meant…" she paused, her eyes locking on his before she continued. "…When you mentioned 'the worst day'."

Ah, but he had heard her the first time she requested it of him. He struggled hard to resist the urge to snap at her, to tell her that she bloody well knew what he meant. How could she not know? Everyone with access to a newspaper or a blasted telly knew.

_Let the woman do her job, John, _he told himself firmly, trying to swallow his senseless irritation.

But was she not aware of the turmoil he had been cast into when she asked such a thing? That doing so had caused the very scene he had repressed for so long to reenact itself inside of his brain? It was endless, agonizing, torturous, as clear as day, as if he had just witnessed it—

_Deep breaths, John. Don't think of that. Focus. Whatever you do, do _not_ think of _that_._

But it was too late. The image of Sherlock hurtling himself off of St. Bart's, falling fast towards the cold, damp ground brutally resurfaced.

_Falling, falling, falling…_

If John focused hard enough, he was certain he could hear the sound of body hitting pavement—

"John," his therapist repeated, her voice hardening as she tried to pull him from the depths of his thoughts.

His eyes snapped open and he drew in a calculated breath, forcing the drumming of his fingers to stop. He did not look at her, choosing instead to focus on the clock mounted on the wall behind her, nearly exhaling in relief when he realized just how much time had passed. "Our time for today is up, yes?"

Before she could form a proper reply, John was already out of his seat, striding for the door with quick steps, determined to escape that bloody room and that bloody woman as fast as possible.

-x

John had so many questions. So, _so_ many. Not a single one contained an answer, merely branching out into three more questions. Four, five. Six, seven… He feared the cycle would never end.

It was as if he had been poisoned and there was no hope for a cure. Any hope that John had clung to had been lost the moment he had clutched Sherlock's wrist, only to feel no pulse beneath his still-warm skin. His brain had been polluted by the endless nightmare of questions, each one of them tearing him apart piece by piece until there would soon be nothing left of Dr. John Watson. No one could answer a single question he possessed; the only person who could was resting peacefully under a black slab of stone, never again to utter another word.

With a weary sigh, John tried to relax in his bed, his mind racing as usual. Night had long since fallen and John suspected that he would have to personally knock himself out if he had any intentions of getting a wink of sleep that night. He chuckled bitterly to himself, wondering what clever words Sherlock would use to chastise him for such poor behavior. He couldn't deny it, he had let himself go. Three months and he couldn't even return to the sodding flat they shared, for Christ's sake. _It's empty, John. Surely you have enough dignity left in you to walk back into a blasted flat._

John knew he probably would never enter the flat again if he wanted to keep _himself_ away from any rooftops or high buildings. Too many memories had been shared there, too many things that would forever remain just that: _memories_. He knew he couldn't possibly bear it. Seeing it so empty, being forced to come to terms with the fact that Sherlock Holmes had been wiped clean from everything he had grown so used to. John could just picture the disaster now, as easy as breathing. He would surely make a snide comment about how unfamiliar the musty place was before he could stop himself. Maybe he'd even throw a glance to his left with a grin, waiting to be greeted with the familiar sight of Sherlock smirking just beside him with that distant look in his eye. But the silence would linger, any remarks he made would go unanswered, just like every one of his questions. Sherlock would not be beside him; John would be so utterly and painfully alone, standing in the flat by himself. _No._ He could not allow himself to enter that place again.

"_Alone is what I have. Alone protects me."_

John wiped his hands over his face, dry skin scraping the stubble coating his cheeks as he forced his burning eyes to close. Sherlock's words often replayed in his mind at times like this, when it was John who found himself alone. As much as it pained him, John suspected he would never tire of hearing his best friend's voice, no matter how awful the words he recalled were. After all, words were all he had left of him. Nothing else remained of the great Sherlock Holmes aside from the fleeting words he spoken to Dr. John Watson, his loyal –and only- companion.

"_I don't have friends. I've just got one."_

Weariness had finally begun to claim John's body, seeping into his bones like a slowly spreading cancer, promising both suffering and release. The much-needed sleep would finally bring his damned racing thoughts to a halt, yet any dreams he could possibly have would turn to nightmares that would haunt him for hours on end after he woke up. John knew it, yet he did not have it in him to resist any longer. Because, like Sherlock, John also had nothing left.

_"If you were dying, if you were murdered, in the very last seconds, what would you say?"_

In an endless sea, John was drowning.

Sinking.

Deeper, deeper.

"_Goodbye, John."_


End file.
